


The Off-Season

by boatkaptain



Category: Megalo Box (Anime)
Genre: Awkwardness, Developing Friendships, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Hugs, Missing Scene, Post-Canon, Questions, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22195267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boatkaptain/pseuds/boatkaptain
Summary: Everything was supposed to get better after Megalonia--but on a visit to Yuri just a few weeks following their fight, Joe learns the hard way that life has other plans.
Relationships: Joe | Junk Dog & Nanbu Gansaku, Joe | Junk Dog & Yuuri
Comments: 10
Kudos: 37





	The Off-Season

**Author's Note:**

> My first fully Joe-focused fic, and I had to go and kick him into a depressive spiral. Typical!

“Come by for a drink sometime,” Yuri had said at he and Joe’s abrupt parting the morning after Megalonia, one on wheels, the other still in his cot, nursing a broken jaw (that was Yuri, ironically)--by way of a notepad, the nurses had passed that message along. And, though Joe didn’t drink, nor have any clue where Yuri lived or the etiquette for being invited to someone’s house…

People had houses all to themselves. People didn’t board with others, or live in tugboats on the riverside, or sleep in different slum hostels above taverns every night. Joe forgot that sometimes.

… he’d never pass down an opportunity to pester his rival. Maybe even rub a little victory in his face, now that the actual gravity of his win had begun to set in.

The thought never once crossed Joe’s mind that, beyond their glorious final match, he and Yuri wouldn’t have anything in common, anything to talk about. Nope. Certainly not.

And he didn’t spend the whole winding drive up into the foothills towards Yuri’s home one otherwise-uneventful afternoon tapping anxiously on the handlebards of his bike, mind racing alongside the vehicle and supplying him, helpfully, with all the ways this could be awkward and uncomfortable and all-around terrible. Maybe Yuri resented Joe. Maybe he saw his loss as mere charity for some poor stray. Joe felt nauseous.

The pines grew thick up here. Summer was dawning; the days stretched longer. Everything smelled of fresh rain and the mist that poured down the distant mountains, dried up well before it reached the Restricted District and the desert Joe so loved. Joe had never been anywhere near here. This was his second time seeing an evergreen in the flesh and bark.

The first was when he and Nanbu dropped by Miss Shirato’s home  _ personally _ to thank her for her generosity in taking care of Sachio with flowers and fruit, only a few days prior. All flora paled beside Miss Shirato’s gardens, in full bloom that point in the season, but she seemed happy anyhow. Joe putzed around the back patio while Nanbu and Shirato shared an awkward cup of tea, and he found himself awestruck by the grand, beautiful trees growing just beyond the hedges. He’d never seen trees that looked so proud to be alive.

Joe focused on the road. He followed the gravel turnoff Nanbu had helped him run through about a thousand times before he left:  _ White Court, Private Drive. White Court, Private Drive.  _ Joe was wondering whether he’d found the wrong White Court, Private Drive when he spied Yuri’s sleek black car parked before him, and let out a partial sigh of relief. That was one potential mess dealt with, at least.

His boots crunched over the chalky silver stones that made up Yuri’s driveway; his eyes scanned the strange, alien architecture of glass and dark wood in color-blocked panels before him. Why were there so many windows? Wasn’t Yuri worried about being watched, or at least being cold?

There was a little button beside the big, blocky front door. Joe knew about doorbells, definitely, though they usually came with pull ropes in his experience. He pressed the button, and heard barking.

Joe had forgotten about the dog. He felt better immediately.

The door swung open; Joe was beaming; there was a smiling canine weaving around his legs; all was well--and then he saw Yuri.

Yuri, a good three feet shorter than Joe remembered him. He was sitting in a wheelchair.

Joe blinked. “The Megalonia folks send you home with one of those?”

“No. It’s good to see you, Joe.”

“Why’ve you got that? What happened?” Joe was in his space, circling the chair while Yuri’s dog circled him in turn. “You didn’t break your leg or something, did you? Where’s your cast?”

“Come in. Can I get you anything?” Yuri navigated all too easily back into the house and away from his guest, pet trotting along with a backwards glance at Joe. Reluctantly, Joe stepped in, overwhelmed by reflections and light and far too many shiny surfaces to be reliably cleaned by a man in a wheelchair. Why was Yuri in a wheelchair?

“Want a beer?” Yuri was at the fridge.

“Ugh, no. Stuff tastes like shit.” Joe might not have been the picture of high society, but he knew he had better manners than this. His head was swimming.

Yuri laughed at him. Joe felt heat boiling in his gut.

“Why are you in a wheelchair?”

“Sit down. Make yourself comfortable,” Yuri welcomed him smoothly, pulling up to the side of a sleek, lacquered dining table and gesturing to the chair at its head. “You sure you don’t want a drink? I’ve got, like… kombucha, I think.”

Joe really wanted to ask what kombucha was, and Yuri probably knew that. Instead: “Yuri.”

Finally, he had the older man’s attention. Beneath Yuri’s mask of cheeriness lay a grim resignation. “Yes?”

“Tell me why you’re in a wheelchair.”

Yuri looked at his hand, curled and resting on the tabletop. “It’s not…”

“Is it my fault?” Joe asked, the horrid thought only occurring to him as he voiced it.

“No, Joe. Absolutely not.” Yuri sighed. “My body ended up reacting poorly to the removal of the gear. Later than Mikio had predicted.”

“So it  _ is _ my fault.”

“I would have had the gear removed at some point. If anything, I should thank you for pushing me to do it while my body still has a fighting chance.” When Joe said nothing, Yuri offered him an easy smile. “It’s unfortunate, but I wasn’t planning on megaloboxing much after Megalonia anyway. I’d take metal legs over metal arms without a second thought.”

This yielded a chuckle from Joe, though he still felt downtrodden. Yuri’s dog padded around from the other side of the table, claws clicking on tile, to rest his head in Joe’s lap. Joe scratched behind his ears. “So long as you never drop your can-do attitude. What’s your dog’s name?”

“London.”

“That’s weird. Why?”

“I named him after an author. Jack London. Wrote a book I liked as a kid about a sled dog slowly adapting to life in the Alaskan wilderness.”

“What’s Alaskan?”

“Alaska. It’s a part of America in the far north; Alaska was its name before they dissolved the states.”

“Why’d you name London after the writer, and not the dog? And why does he look like a wolf?”

Yuri laughed. “You sure ask a lot of questions.”

“And it seems so far like you’ve got answers,” Joe smiled. “If you answer my questions, you can ask me some of your own.”

Yuri eyed him, clearly amused. Joe went on scratching London’s fluffy cheeks.

“I thought London was a more unique name than Buck.”

“I like Buck,” Joe commented.

“He’s a purebred. A type of dog called a Siberian husky. They make good sled dogs.”

“What’s a sled dog?”

“I thought it was my turn to ask questions,” Yuri said calmly.

“One more. Please?”

London padded away and stood at the back door, began to whine and scratch.

“There’s a sport--and an old world means of transportation, I suppose--where you strap a two rows of dogs to a long wooden sleigh, and they pull you through the snow. Come on, let’s take London out.”

Thinking about how strange and silly it might be to ride in a sleigh pulled by dogs, Joe left a safe distance between them and watched as Yuri easily wheeled himself towards the door and slid it open--deft, as if he’d been doing this his whole life. Joe wondered if there was any part of Yuri that enjoyed the change, though he didn’t know why he might.

“How old are you?” Yuri asked him. Joe found himself taken back by that.

“Don’t laugh,” Joe warned him.

“I won’t.”

“I don’t know.”

Yuri turned to look at him, genuine shock plain on his face. Joe felt strange standing on his own two feet, so he sat cross-legged on the patio.

“I just--y’know. I don’t. Pops thinks I’m… twenty-five, maybe.”

“Pops?”

“Nanbu.”

“Ah.” Yuri watched as London bounded around the yard, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. “Are you an orphan?”

Joe startled. Another unexpected question. “Not often I hear people call me that these days.”

“I’m sorry; I don’t mean to pry.”

“It’s fine.” Joe took a deep breath, found he rather liked the cool, damp smell of pine. “I think so. My parents could still be around, I guess; it’s not like I saw ‘em die. I don’t remember much about ‘em. Just details.”

“Sure,” Yuri murmured.

The sea glimmered in the distance. Joe found himself missing Nanbu and Sachio in that moment; their houseboat rocking in the slow-moving river current.

As if Yuri had read his mind: “Nanbu and your little cornerman are like a family to you, aren’t they?”

Joe laughed at that. “Sachio. Sure, we’re family. Hardly got a choice in the matter.”

“Family is funny that way.”

Quiet for a moment, they watched London flop down and roll onto his back, growling at the faux opponent that was his tail. Gentle, silvery clouds came to cover the sun.

“Was Miss Shirato sort of like your family?”

Yuri looked down at his socked feet. “In a sense.”

“She liked you, didn’t she?” When Yuri turned to peer at Joe, he saw a strange sort of unfamiliarity in his eyes. “I could tell, the way she talked about you when you got your gear removed. And I can’t usually tell with that kind of thing.”

Yuri narrowed his eyes. “There were some feelings between us. Nothing ever came of it, much as we both may have wanted something to.”

Joe said nothing. Yuri tried to read him for--what, envy?--and saw, again, nothing.

“Have you ever been with somebody like that?”

Joe smiled wryly, tapped one of his crooked knees. “No.”

“Oh.”

“Do you think that’s weird?”

Yuri scoffed. “Everybody’s walking on their own road.”

“Wheeling, in your case.”

Gently, Yuri batted the side of Joe’s head. They sat for another short while, took note of the fact that London had fallen asleep in the faraway grass by the hedgerow.

“What do you do outside of boxing, Joe?”

“What do  _ you _ do outside of boxing?”

Yuri smiled. “Walk London. Read.” With a satiated hum, he stretched his arms high above his head. “I’ve always wanted to collect rare books. Maybe I’ll put some time into it, now that megaloboxing’s out of the cards for me.”

Collecting. That was another thing people did that Joe didn’t quite understand. Where did they find the space? Was there anything he loved enough to buy more than one of?

“I swim, when it’s warm enough. Pops says I’m a waterbug. And I love my bike--riding it, giving it tune-ups, whatever--more than anything. I mean--I’m teaching myself how to do the tune-ups, but I’m not very good at it yet. Sachio and Pops and I watch movies when we can find ‘em.”

“Like what?”

“Like… oh, what was that one Pops was real excited about the other day?  _ Halloween? _ We all really liked that one, but Sachio had to sleep in my bed afterwards.”

Yuri laughed. “How are those two holding up after the tournament, anyhow?”

“They won’t stop fussing with me. So many questions. Does my head hurt? Does it hurt to chew? How am I sleeping? Have I felt nauseous lately?”

“Worried about your concussion, certainly.”

“Or worried I’m going through withdrawal.” Joe shot Yuri a look that the older man would later acknowledge as one of the few times he ever perfectly understood Joe, every minute machination inside him. He understood. He understood.

“Are you?”

“Damn right.” Joe’s smile softened. “But… for some reason, when I actually think about fighting again, or even step into our ring under the bridge, I feel--weird. Psyched out in a way I haven’t been since that fight with Samejima.”

“It would only make sense, with this being your first season.”

Joe looked up at him, perplexed.

“When we’re in the ring, so to speak--in the midst of constant planning and press and, of course, the fights--we put on our blinders and become our instincts. I mean, that was the way I always saw it.”

“Sure.”

Yuri ran a hand through his hair. “But then it ends for a little while. The off-season--that’s right now. And that long stretch of adrenaline and fearlessness starts to die down as we become regular, vulnerable humans again.”

Joe shuddered. He didn’t like to think of himself as a regular, vulnerable human.

“It’s an illusion, of course. If somebody walked into this backyard and threw a punch at you right now, Joe, what would you do?”

“Knock his ass out,” Joe insisted.

“Of course you would. Hell, I’d probably find a way to do the same. It’s easy to forget that a boxer’s still a boxer in the off-season. Matches don’t make us who and what we are. The fight’s in you, not out there.”

Joe rested his chin on his knees. He felt a sickening sort of urge to cry, oddly enough, so he whistled for London to come distract him. The dog, bless his heart, bounded up and out of his doze.

“I’ll never box again, Joe. The doctors--Mikio, too--they’re certain of that.”

Joe wrapped his arms around London’s neck, buried his face in soft white fur.

“But I’m still a boxer. I always will be.”

Joe wanted to go home. He wanted to fall into Nanbu’s arms and weep against his shoulder and lose himself in the smell of beer, cooking and glove oil, leather, river water. He wanted Sachio to do that little adaptation of a hug he’d made for when they were both too overstimulated to embrace: fan out all five fingers and press them hard against Joe’s, intense and meaningful. Yuri, now, was a reminder that neither of them were invincible--and, in a way, Joe hated him for that.

But he also wished he could hug Yuri, too. Thank him for giving up so much just to make a good match. Megalonia was a dream--the leadup, the fights, the cheering crowds. Joe’s only taste of cruel reality came at Nanbu’s brief betrayal, and now here it was again, bleak and cold. Matches ended, and legs stopped working, and people lost their eyes.

Joe settled for hugging Yuri’s dog instead.

“Every morning over breakfast, Sachio reads me the date and time. Day of the week, year, everything. And I say it back to him.” Joe didn’t know where this was coming from, or why he felt the need to share what felt like mundanity. “‘Till I started training for Megalonia with he and Pops, I never knew. It was either a match day, or it wasn’t. Morning, afternoon, night.”

Yuri was quiet. “And what’s today?” he asked.

Joe snickered, feeling vaguely patronized but not minding it. “Wednesday. June eighth, 2189. I don’t know what time it is.” Joe liked knowing what time it was.

For a long while, Yuri said nothing. London abruptly trotted off to the bushes before returning with a tennis ball, which he dropped at Joe’s feet. Joe tossed it as hard as he could, and off the husky shot, fast as a magnet train.

“It’s not just sports that have off-seasons,” Yuri finally said, surprising Joe. “People often find themselves in them just the same.”

Like a glug of water in the early morning, Joe felt that fact drop and churn in his gut. Had his whole life prior to Megalonia been an off-season, or would this be his first? How could he possibly survive a period of intentional resignation after a lifetime of fighting, in one form or another?

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you hit one with the comedown from Megalonia. Hell, mine started before our final match.” Yuri took the tennis ball from London this time, tossed it so that it bounced with a heavy thud against the sod. “You work through them, and they can run their courses quickly enough, but denying them won’t help anything. Admitting you’re in the doldrums is the hardest part.”

Joe swallowed, found there was a lump in his throat. “What are the doldrums?” he asked.

“An area in the middle of the ocean without any wind to move ships along.” Yuri turned to Joe fully now--spun his wheels and everything. He looked intense. “The date-and-time spiel you run through with Sachio?”

“Yeah?”

“Hold on to that, Joe. Every morning, hold on to that.”

Joe’s hand found the loose belly of his own red tee-shirt, gripped the fabric in his shaking fist.

“Just live for now. Every minute.” Yuri cast an oddly gentle glance down at his rival. “They add up. When you feel like you’re falling backwards, remember the date and time.”

“Like touching the wall,” Joe muttered.

If Yuri wanted clarification on that, he didn’t show it.

When Joe stood, London trotted over, tennis ball forgotten in the brush. He stood at Joe’s feet with an inquisitively wagging tail and wide, fanged smile. Joe placed a few pats on his head and then turned to Yuri.

“I have to go home now.”

“Of course. I shouldn’t keep you.”

“Pops probably needs help with dinner.”

“Right.”

“He made me promise I wouldn’t ride in the dark ‘till the concussion was totally healed.”

Yuri’s calm facade faltered, became a crooked smirk. “You don’t have to make excuses, you know. I get having a social threshold. Keep out of the promoting business; that’s my advice.”

Social threshold? Joe reminded himself to ask Nanbu what that meant when he got home.

“Sorry.” Joe looked at his boots. “I, uh… sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re welcome here anytime.”

Just in time, Joe remembered his dodgy sense of etiquette. “You too. I mean--at the boat. Swing by whenever. We’re gonna build a real gym.”

Yuri brightened. “That’s wonderful news. I’m sure Nanbu’s thrilled.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty amped,” Joe murmured, scratching an elbow. “Um, I’m gonna… go.”

“Alright. Drive safe, Joe.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will.” There was that pesky urge to cry again. Or apologize to Yuri for nothing in particular--or sock him in the face, maybe. Instead Joe just turned and walked away, cut through the bushes by the side of the house and found his bike waiting in the driveway. He climbed on and revved up, grabbed his goggles from their place hanging on one handlebar and pulled them down over his eyes. Gravel crackled under his wheels as he pulled out and veered back onto the mountain road, the evening’s descending sun following him as he rode down towards the city.

Joe cried into his goggles. Not a lot. Just a little. He couldn’t remember the last time this had happened.

The river was pink and gold by the time Joe pulled into the Restricted District, and then a blazing red as he parked by the boat. Joe could hear and smell Nanbu’s makeshift firepit crackling away on the starboard deck--cooking something, maybe. For the first time, with his wet face and red-tinged eyes, Joe felt selfishly grateful that Nanbu was blind.

He stalked over to the boat and climbed on deck, finding Nanbu turning and prodding five kebabs piercing blackened beef with a metal poker.

“Where’s Sachio?”

“Thought that was you,” Nanbu grunted. “Out with his buddies; should be back soon. How’s Yuri holding up?”

Joe opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again.

“Pops?” His voice came out quiet and awkward and shaky.

Nanbu turned, brows raised--but before he could ask after the fighter’s frosty silence, Joe put a hand on his shoulder, laid his forehead on the opposite.

It only took a few seconds for Nanbu to understand this pathetic excuse for affection; he disregarded his cooking for the time being and snaked his arms around Joe’s back, pulled him in close. Joe let his own stilted hold become a proper embrace, too, much as his instinct tended to deter him from the very principle of hugging. But then there was a palm pressed against his back, fingers moving in tiny circles, a voice muttering half-heartedly that it was okay, whatever  _ it _ may have been--and Joe didn’t want to move from this spot, ever.

Eventually he’d pull away and tell Nanbu about Yuri’s legs, about the idea of the off-season. Eventually he’d ask what having a  _ social threshold _ meant, and how to deal with the reality of his strange fear of the ring as of late.

Eventually.

Yuri had told Joe to live for now, and now he was here, warmed by the fire and the summer air and the first real expression of love he and his coach had ever shared.

Today was Wednesday the eighth, 2189. Joe didn’t know what time it was. When Sachio got back, he promised himself he’d ask.

**Author's Note:**

> LET 👏 THEM 👏 HUG 👏
> 
> Hope my tiny little Megalo Box audience liked this one. Comments are appreciated more on these fics than any others, since the fandom... doesn't really exist. Bless!


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